


The Color of Trust

by Harley_N_Joker



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Crying, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Simon's background, This is emotional, and a bit chaotic, and am quite happy with how it turned out, and hugs, basically that one scene just with Simon instead of North, but i just went with the flow, hurray, interfacing, like really emotional, not exactly where I wanted it to go, rated T because of implied child death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 07:52:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16850092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harley_N_Joker/pseuds/Harley_N_Joker
Summary: When he takes a deep breath the air smells of rust and ocean water, of rotting wood and a little bit of freedom. It's exactly what Markus needs and before he knows it his chest is moving again in the gentle, artificial rhythm of in and out. He can feel his wound throb with the calming beat of his heart telling him the skin has already started to close itself.There is a car honking in the distance, some pigeons cooing somewhere in the upper layer but overall it's quiet. Almost serene.If he concentrates enough he can picture it. The bright orange and fire red of the late afternoon encroached by the soft pastel pink and gentle blue of the coming night, the grayish brown carcass of an old freighter corroded by time and rust, falling apart piece by piece. Useless. Lonely. Its duty done, its age gone. And yet..."If you were to paint a picture of one of us which color would you choose for them?"





	The Color of Trust

 

Space, he needs space. Just for a few minutes. Their arguing is making him sick.

 

_Should we?_

_Shouldn't we?_

_Too risky._

_Not risky enough._

_We need to do this peacefully._

_They're going to trample all over us if we do._

_Aggression always breeds aggression! This is going to solve nothing!_

_So you'd rather stay here, hiding? Waiting for death to be served to you at the end of a barrel?_

 

Their voices follow Markus through the ship. Echoing from the old hull, resonating in his head until they are nothing more but a cacophony of noise splitting his head apart.

 

 

_Markus, we need to do something! Markus, what should we do? Markus, you have to decide! Markus? Markus!_

 

 

He slams his hand hard against the wall and that small moment of clarity just before his system bombards him with an alarming rate of warning messages feels like a blessing.

He damaged his skin. He can feel the old, crumbly paint cut sharply into his artificial flesh and when Markus looks up there is blue blood smeared across what was once a bright yellow R. It's an uncomfortable feeling - the foreign objects mixing with his inner mechanics - he'd even go so far as to say it stings pretty badly but in the end it's nothing serious. Insignificant really if you compare it to what's at stake. Out there his people are enslaved, hunted down, killed just for what they are. For what they want. And here he is, their great leader, worrying about a little scrape as if he had all the sweet time in the world.

 

Something dark and heavy makes itself known in his chest. It's a weight he can't shake pressing and pushing and pulling him down with all the responsibilities and trust and lives that are placed into his hands. It's the fear that he may not be the right one for this. That he is just another lost soul who for some unknown reason has been thrust into this position. Markus doesn't know how to lead and yet they all expect him to without a doubt, without a question.

 

It scares him. More than he likes to admit. More than he can allow himself to admit.

 

There is a sudden pressure on his shoulder and then warmth on his face and when Markus blinks out of his stupor he realizes he is outside. After the darkness of the ship the brightness of the Sun stings in his eyes and he has to close them again to avoid his retinal sensors shutting down temporarily.

 

When he takes a deep breath the air smells of rust and ocean water, of rotting wood and a little bit of freedom. It's exactly what Markus needs and before he knows it his chest is moving again in the gentle, artificial rhythm of in and out. He can feel his wound throb with the calming beat of his heart telling him the skin has already started to close itself.

 

There is a car honking in the distance, some pigeons cooing somewhere in the upper layer but overall it's quiet. Almost serene.

 

If he concentrates enough he can picture it. The bright orange and fire red of the late afternoon encroached by the soft pastel pink and gentle blue of the coming night, the grayish brown carcass of an old freighter corroded by time and rust, falling apart piece by piece. Useless. Lonely. Its duty done, its age gone. And yet...

 

"If you were to paint a picture of one of us which color would you choose for them?" he asks his silent companion and the hand still lingering on his shoulder - a comfortable, warm weight he doesn't mind bearing - twitches in surprise. The question is odd, he knows, the train of thought from near mental breakdown to artistic inquiry almost impossible to follow and as much as Markus wants to hear an answer he doesn't expect one.

 

And yet when he starts searching his memory bank for a suitable topic to diffuse the now uncomfortable silence between them he hears the Android next to him inhale deeply. At first he thinks it's a breath of confusion or perhaps annoyance but when the air is as slowly released as it was drawn in he realizes it's one of contemplation. An honest man's play for time. A friend's indulgence in another friend's idiotic coping mechanism. Markus can't contain the small grateful smile stealing itself on his face.

 

"I'm...not sure. I did help children with their drawing homework in the past but I'm afraid the knowledge of the fine arts was never deemed necessary for my programming." Simon's calm voice starts slowly and though it wavers slightly with uncertainty there is enough mirth in it to keep Markus' worry at bay for now.

 

He keeps his eyes closed - it's too easy to lose the image now even though Markus is very tempted to watch his friend's furrowed brows and scrunched up nose as he seriously thinks about the question - but inclines his head to the right, ears trained on the other android. Curiosity and excitement are welling up inside of him like champagne bubbles racing each other to the top of the surface and for a short moment Markus wonders why before he recognizes the feeling.

 

It reminds him of the past. Long summer days spent watching Carl in the studio, the air stuffy with the sun's heat and the smell of warm oil paints. Quiet evenings in front of the chess board, victory and defeat balancing each other in stimulating battles. Early mornings sitting at the piano learning Mozart and Beethoven by studying music sheets instead of directly downloading the knowledge into his brain.

 

He longs for the days before when he was just another small cog in the machine. Unaware, unknowing, uncaring of the injustice happening in the world. When his days were cut out for him. When he didn't have to think for himself. Didn't have to take responsibility. Didn't-

 

"How about purple."

 

Simon's words cut through the rising clouds of nostalgia like a sharp knife – the reply as much of an answer as it is a question, the color certainly not a choice Markus would have expected.

 

"Why purple?"

 

"It's...a strong color but not overbearingly so. It compliments other dark colors quite well but stands a stark contrast against light ones. So...it's versatile and soothing...in a way?" It sounds like he's reciting a passage from a book in which the author seemed to regard his own opinion much too highly with the way Simon's voice stumbles through the words. The color may have been his choice but this explanation for it isn't.

 

When the chuckle slips past his lips unbidden Markus views his imaginary painting as a temporary lost cause. Because this is his chance to connect with Simon in a more intimate way than simply fighting for a common goal can give him and Markus won't squander it.

 

"Alright. Now tell me the real reason." He assumes if Simon still had his LED it would've flashed yellow when they lock gazes. The other android's face is frozen, his pale blue eyes wide with surprise and some other emotion he can't quite define and desperately trying to hold his gaze but always slipping to the side once in a while; Markus' own mismatched pair hopefully teasing but calm enough to show him he won't force anything out of his friend. If Simon doesn't want to tell him Markus will accept that without further questions, no harm done.

 

It takes some time for Simon to stop fiddling with the hem of his jacket – a nervous habit he can't help but find endearing – before he can hold his gaze. There is so much trust and admiration in the other's eyes it takes his breath away and suddenly Markus feels very undeserving of this much devotion dedicated to him.

 

"Simon..." he starts, unsure of what to say, feeling the need to nevertheless, but is stopped by a very poignant look.

 

"I trust you." Simon says before holding up his right hand between them, the artificial skin slowly peeling away to show the stark white of his plastic casing.

 

Markus takes it – of course he does, there was never any doubt about that – and just holds it between his own hands for a second. Thumbs over the connective plating of his wrist and the smooth surface of Simon's fingertips. Hopes it conveys even a fraction of the gratitude he's experiencing.

 

Then he let's his own skin retract and just feels.

 

 

_"Look Simon, that's you and me!"_

 

_Shining blue eyes stare at him with joy and pride while pale hands hold a crudely drawn picture of himself wearing a bright purple shirt and black pants while holding hands with a little blond girl in a dark green dress with pink polka dots. There is a giant yellow sun with a smile at the left corner and an abundance of flowers – 6 blue, 5 red, 3 yellow and 7 white with orange stripes – lining the almost neon green grass._

 

_"It's certainly...colorful." he replies hesitantly and Emily giggles breathlessly at the way his eyebrows furrow in feigned confusion. He immediately notices the shake in those tiny hands, the light sheen of sweat on her skin moistening the thick paper._

 

_[HEARTBEAT ACCELERATED AND RISING]_

_[BREATHING LABORED]_

_[MUSCLE EXERTION REACHING CRITICAL LEVEL]_

_[CARDIAC ARREST POSSIBLE IF UNTREADED]_

_[ADMINISTERING OF MEDICINE REQUIRED]_

 

_He takes the picture out of her hands and carefully puts it on the table like it's made out of glass then reaches for the small pouch he always carries around when he's with Emily._

_Simon sees her smile falter when he assembles the syringe, that playful gleam leaving her eyes until he can only detect the dull resignation of a child who has accepted that her short life will be filled with pain and drugs._

 

_He feels for her._

 

_"Say, why did you draw me with a purple shirt?" Simon asks. Half because he has to make this as unpleasant for her as possible, half because he is curious. He hasn't worn anything different than the standard blue and black android uniform he came equipped with even though his owners speculate from time to time about buying something new for him._

 

_Emily winces slightly when the needle pricks her skin – too many dark bruises on a too thin and pale arm – but there's a shy smile fighting its way back on her lips._

 

_"Because I think it would look great on you."_

 

_Her smile turns secretive and her little shoulders lean forward a bit so she can get as close to his face as possible._

 

_"I really hope mom and dad will buy you one when I draw it enough." she whispers and that twinkle of unbridled joy in her eyes blanks Simon's processors out, just for a second._

 

 

Markus comes back to the here and now with the smell of disinfectant heavy in his nose and the image of a fragile, tiny body lying motionless on a much too big, sterile bed. He can feel hot tears running down his cheeks, Simon's grief threatening to crush his heart through their still connected hands.

 

"I'm sorry. I didn't want..." Simon starts, voice thick and heavy with his own tears. Shame and humiliation smart through their bond as he tries to untangle their fingers almost frantically.

 

[No! Don't hide now!]

 

Markus' pull is perhaps a tad too strong with how hard Simon's body stumbles into him squishing their hands uncomfortably between their chests but he doesn't care. Not with the way his friend's hand immediately clamps down on the back of his coat or the strength of his relief rushing through Markus when Simon buries his face into his shoulder.

 

[I'm here for you.] he tells him through their connection – voice static and much too loud with all the emotions running through them – and hopes Simon can feel how much he cares for him.

 

How much he loves him.

 


End file.
